Ahh, festival bogs
T'was the summer of 1999, and my first ever Leeds Festival was in full swing. It was ace lazing around, watching bands, getting shitted as and when we pleased ... the only thing that left something to be desired were of course the chemical loos. You see, Leeds fest was in it's infancy in those days and the organisers had somewhat underestimated the number of toilets that would be required by the masses of beered-up, stodge-filled youths. Thus when it was wee-wee time it was something of a lottery, opening one door after the other and gingerly having a peek to see if it was any less shitty, pissy or sicky than the others.

On the evening of the third day of festivalness, my mate decided that she needed to make wee, so off she toddled to the now vary fragrant portaloos. A few minutes later she returned, ashen faced. I asked her what the matter was. This is what the matter was:

In the first loo that she tried, she was met by the sight of a mountain of shit, wee-soaked bog roll ("it was like bangers and mash") and a good dousing of sick mostly compromised of baked beans, towering out of the pan by a good foot or so. People must have literally climbed onto either side of the bog seat and added to the mound.

The too much info bit? "There were two bumcheek-shaped prints in it" she mumbled, "someone must have been too pissed to climb up and just sat in it".

Click "I like this" if you never want to be that pissed.
( Droog is too orangey for crows, Thu 6 Sep 2007, 13:04, Reply)